Splendor (49 page)

Mounted French soldiers trotted down the boulevard. Carolyn and Taichili pressed their backs into the wall of a ]

stone-and-timber building, praying that the night shadows cast there would hide them. But Carolyn could hear her own harsh breathing, it was so terribly loud. She could hear Taichili's breathing as well, as harsh and frightened as her own. Fear almost paralyzed her. She expected the soldiers to remark them at any moment.

Carolyn trembled, clawing the stone at her back. Had she somehow stepped into some horrific, monstrous, impossible nightmare? How had she arrived at this time and place? They were two women, alone in a foreign city, a city in the midst of an invasion by enemy troops—with Nicholas's child still missing. In that moment, not for the first time, Carolyn prayed fervently that they would find Katya, or that Sasha already had found her.

The French were boisterous and noisy. Their ribald conversation echoed loudly in the silent night. But the small cavalcade continued past the two women without anyone ever seeing them, finally disappearing down another street.

Carolyn slowly slumped to the ground. She wanted to cry. In frustration, in fear, and in despair. "They have come," she said hoarsely. "They have come and we do not even have a weapon, dear God."

Taichili sat heavily on the sidewalk beside her. She lifted up her skirts. High and higher still. Tucked into her garter above her knee was a small pistol.

"Is it loaded?" Carolyn asked, staring at the incongruous sight.

Taichili nodded, dropping her skirts. "What are we going to do?"

Carolyn brushed her eyes. ' 'There is nothing we can do, except to continue searching. If Katya is not lost, she must be somewhere back at the house."

"We have covered every street in a twenty-block grid," Taichili said grimly. "If she does not wish to be found, she will never be found."

Carolyn was feeling the same way. Worse, she was almost certain now that this was no longer a matter of Katya hiding. Something must have happened to her. Carolyn

could only hope that she had been seized by Russian refugees and taken away from Moscow. "Surely the French would not harm a little girl."

Taichih looked at her. "She is a very pretty little girl."

Carolyn felt sick. "I will beat her myself if I do find her," she said tersely, her tone choked with tears, and she stood. But an instant later singing voices came to her ears, drunken ones, and the lyrics were Russian.

She sank back to the ground, huddling against Taichili, her heart in her throat, as several men suddenly ran past them, brandishing flaming torches. They were Russians, but not soldiers, and they were peasants. Carolyn's eyes widened as the three men halted on the opposite side of the street. And then approaching horses could be heard. The men exclaimed loudly, proceeded to hastily set fire to the buildings around them. One of those buildings was a stable. Flames danced along the wooden timbers. Watching, Carolyn found herself holding Taichili's hand. Whoosh! Suddenly the hay inside the stable had caught fire, and the entire building became a blazing inferno.

And the men were gone. A dozen mounted French soldiers galloped down the street, ignoring the fire, pursuing the Russians who were torching their own city.

Carolyn leapt to her feet. "Danm them!" she shouted, shaking her fist at them all, the French and the Russians.

Taichili grabbed her wrist, dragging it down. "It must be midnight. Maybe Prince Vorontsky has found her."

Carolyn nodded. They raced down the street, leaving the flaming buildings and bam behind. Carolyn's legs felt as heavy as dead pieces of wood. She had never been so exhausted, so utterly weary, but somehow, she managed to force her legs to obey her brain, to keep running. The palace loomed ahead, tall, silent, a jumble of shadowy domes, gables, and towers. Nothing seemed to have changed. The wagon remained in the courtyard, the traces lying empty on the ground. And then Carolyn gripped Taichili's arm. "Someone was—or is—here!" she cried in a whisper. For the front door was wide and starkly open.

The two women exchanged a frightened look. Carolyn's pulse pounded. She was breathless with far more than lack of air. They did not move to the house. "Prince Voront-sky!" Carolyn called in a whisper, panting. "Prince Vo-rontsky?"

"Excellency?" Taichili tried.

There was no response.

Behind them, there was a loud whooshing sound in the night, one frightening and familiar.

In unison, the women turned, and saw that a' neighbor's house had burst into flames. Fire danced along the wood moldings, the window encasements, the roof. And they could hear the voices of the men who had undoubtedly started the fire, somewhere in the street. "Quick!" Carolyn and Taichili raced across the courtyard and darted into the house. Carolyn threw the bolt. They panted, leaning on the door.

"What if they set fire to this house?" Taichili asked grimly.

"We will have to escape through a back window," Carolyn said as grimly, already calculating the best escape route. And then, from above them, there was a sudden and loud thump.

Carolyn froze. The governess was also motionless. Carolyn lifted her finger to her lips, seized again with fear. Taichili lifted her skirts and removed the pistol. The two women melted against one of the round white columns. Fortunately, the entire foyer was cast in dark midnight blackness. Carolyn knew she had not imagined the noise. Someone was inside the house—upstairs.

A step creaked. And another. Carolyn's heart was slamming painfully against her breast. Taichili pointed and cocked the gun. That sound was horrendously loud, echoing in the spacious, high-ceilinged room.

"Is anyone there?" Katya whispered.

And Carolyn cried out. She rushed forward as the child slowly came down the stairs. Her face was pale and blotchy

with tears. "It is I! Carolyn!" she cried, wrapping the child in a fierce embrace. Katya clung to her.

Taichili intruded, pulling Katya from Carolyn and likewise clasping her to her breast.

Then Caroline wanted to strangle the child. "Where have you been?" she almost screamed. She fought the urge to shake her. "We have been looking everywhere for you!"

Katya began to cry. "I was sleeping in my room. I came home and everybody was gone. I thought I'd never see you or Taichili or Maman or Father again!" she sobbed.

Carolyn stared, and realizing how terrible it must have been for her to return home and find the house deserted and everyone gone, she hugged her again, this time rocking her and making soothing sounds. "It's all right. You are not alone, and we are going to Tver to find your mother. It's all right. Sshh, dear." She looked up, no longer able to contain her own tears, which threatened to choke her. She saw that Taichili was also crying, although attempting staunchly not to.

And in that split instant, she heard voices in the courtyard.

The trio.froze. Horses clattered on the cobblestones. Through the windows, hand-held torches flared, this time wielded by French soldiers. Carolyn put her hand over Katya's mouth, her pulse slamming in her throat. She and Taichili looked at one another, silently communicating. Their dilemma was clear. Should they hide in the house, and wait for the soldiers to leave? What if the soldiers did not leave? What if they torched the house? Should they try to run away instead? But what if, in an attempt to flee, they were pursued—and capmred?

And then someone was trying to open the front door.

The looter said, "fa va ici?\ It's locked from the inside. Do you think someone could be at home, mes amisT'

Taichili and Carolyn moved at once. With Katya, they raced across the foyer and into the adjoining salon, shutting the doors and pressing against the wall there. They heard glass from the windows in the foyer breaking.

Carolyn looked across the huge room at the windows on the salon's other side. As she did so, she could hear the Frenchmen again, talking now excitedly as they smashed more windows in the front of the house. She measured the distance to the far side of the room, wishing it were a small, cozy parlor, wondering when and if they should make a run for it, aware that the Frenchmen were now clambering through the windows that let onto the foyer. She could hear them milling about the front hall in their heavy riding boots.

Taichili shoved Carolyn hard in the direction she had been gazing.

Carolyn looked at her, saw she held the pistol, which was cocked. Taichili mouthed, Go! Take Katya and go!

Carolyn did not want to leave her alone in the house. She shook her head—and heard one of the muffled voices suggesting a search of the entire house. Her heart rioted.

Go! Taichili mouthed.

There was no choice. Carolyn gripped Katya's hand, met her gaze, and the child seemed to understand. Together they ducked low and began sneaking across the huge room, as silently as possible, hand in hand. As they did so, the salon doors were flung open. The torches the men had brought into the foyer cast a dim, flickering light into the salon. Carolyn and Katya froze, on all fours.

"We need more torches," someone said, slowly entering the room. Carolyn tensed in anticipation of being discovered. "I can hardly see."

A gun fired—it was Taichili's pistol. A man cried out in pain and hit the floor with a rock-hard thump.

Carolyn and Katya raced across the salon for their very hves.

"It's a woman!" someone shouted angrily.

Carolyn flung Katya ahead of her against the far wall. She heard another gunshot, the sound deeper, obviously from a different weapon, as she flung her elbow against the glass windowpane. The window broke, shattering loudly. Carolyn ignored the pain as shards of glass cut into her skin. She heard the men shouting, heard scuffling, heard

Taichili scream. But she was already lifting Katya and throwing her out of the window, scrambling up and out behind her. They fell together onto the stone terrace below, and crouched there underneath the broken window, listening to the sounds of the fighting.

Nicholas saw the other rider as he came around one city comer at a canter. He reined his horse in abruptly, preparing to flee in another direction. In the next instant, he realized that it was Sasha. He spurred his mount forward. Sasha galloped toward him.

They pulled up in the center of the black, deserted street, facing one another. "Any luck?" Nicholas asked grimly, already knowing what the answer was. He could see it on Sasha's face, which was dark and grim.

"No. Let's go back to the palace. Maybe the ladies are there with Katya."

Nicholas was ill with anguish. His daughter remained missing. He wheeled his black and they cantered toward his home in silence, only their horses' hooves making a rhythmic thudding noise on the dirt road—a noise that seemed frighteningly loud given the silence of the abandoned city. Of course, he was well aware that the French had already entered Moscow. He had almost crossed the path of several French soldiers on two occasions. Fortunately, he had seen them before they had seen him. He knew he would be shot on sight if he was espied first.

"Niki. I am so sorry," Sasha said.

Nicholas took one long glance at his hard face. He knew his cousin referred to the fact that Katya was missing, not to the fact that he had cuckolded him. He no longer cared about Sasha's affair with Marie-Elena. He only cared to find his daughter, and Carolyn, and get everyone safely out of the city.

Ahead of them, they saw five buildings being devoured by a roaring fire.

Far grimmer than before, Nicholas motioned to his cousin with a nod and they swung their horses hard to the

right, detouring through an alleyway. His home was not too far in the distance.

Their mounts thundered down the narrow passage. Tall buildings and a fence henmied them in on both sides. And as they turned onto a popular shopping avenue, they rode into the midst of a dozen French cavalry.

"Arretez-vous!" an officer shouted.

Nicholas almost broke his horse's neck as he whirled him around in such a tight turn that the steed's hind hooves never moved a centimeter. And as he leaned low over the black's neck, spurring him into a gallop, muskets began firing. Sasha was just slightly behind him. Nicholas thought he heard him grunt.

Nicholas whipped his horse with his reins, urging the tired animal to even greater speed. He could hear the thundering hoofbeats of the French, and estimated they were not many meters behind them. A bullet whistled past his ear.

"Sasha!" he shouted, aiming his horse toward the conflagration that they had just veered away from. More muskets fired.

Nicholas did not look behind him to see if his cousin was following—but thought he could feel his presence on his flank.

His horse did not hesitate. As one, the man drove the beast into the inferno.

The horse screamed. A falling timber, on fire, caused the stallion to bolt to the side. Other falling timbers narrowly missed them, and even so, Nicholas felt one side of his leg burning painfully. With one gloved hand he beat out the flames. He gave the animal the spurs again. A flaming cart blocked their way. Savagely determined, Nicholas drove the black forward. The charger hurled over the cart. And they were through the building, and in the street on the other side, where the air was sweet and cool and clean.

Nicholas pulled up as Sasha's horse erupted from between the blazing buildings. Neither man nor animal, Nicholas saw with relief, was on fire. With one hand he stroked

his mount's sweat-soaked neck. He knew the French would not risk their lives to follow them through that living version of hell.

Sasha pulled up alongside him. His face was starkly white. And Nicholas saw the blood pouring over the right side of his chest and arm.

"How bad is it?" he demanded, stabbed with real concern.

"I will hve," Sasha said harshly. "It is my shoulder. The back."

Nicholas nodded grimly, but he had seen more men die than not from musket-ball wounds. He wheeled his mount, and they galloped away from the fire, down the empty street. He glimpsed the tall tiered towers and domes of his home ahead of them. And in the courtyard—in his courtyard—he saw the riderless horses, and he also saw the lights coming from inside the house. Adrenaline coursed through him.

And a woman screamed. >

Nicholas did not hesitate. He cocked his pistol, whipped his horse, and galloped through the open iron gates, thundering across the courtyard—and up the front steps and into the foyer.

Carolyn heard Taichili scream, horses thundering inside the house, another gunshot, and a man's scream of agony. Ka-tya began to cry.

Carolyn held her, hard, tears streaking her own face, knowing that now was not the time to break down, but also knowing her stamina was at an end. She heard another cry of pain and anguish, harsh, uncompromising—final. Katya was hiding her face with her hands and shaking—but Carolyn was also trembling uncontrollably.

They still crouched outside the salon on the terrace. Her pulse roaring in her ears, Carolyn released the little girl, cautiously straightened, and peered through the broken window. Her eyes went wide. Shock filled her.

Torches blazed inside of the foyer and salon, lighting

both rooms completely. Nicholas was mounted on top of a sweat-soaked black charger which was dancing in the foyer between the huge plaster colunms on the blue and white floors. In one hand he swung a saber. Carolyn watched his horse rearing, saw him drive the animal forward—toward two French soldiers who were rushing at him with their sabers drawn. His horse clattering on the stone floor, Nicholas struck, instantly decapitating one man. A blow wielded by the other soldier glanced off his prancing mount's flank. Nicholas parried the other attacker and stabbed him viciously in the chest, killing him almost instantly.

Rghting the urge to vomit, Carolyn realized that Sasha was also in the foyer, astride his rearing bay, and fighting as viciously with two other enemy soldiers. As he fatally wounded one below the breastbone, hope seized Carolyn. She averted her eyes, not wanting to see him running his other opponent through with his blade.

And then she saw the two soldiers standing in the shadows of the salon, as yet unnoticed by Nicholas. One of them was raising a pistol, aiming it carefully—directly at him.

"Nicholas!" Carolyn screamed.

Too late. The shot sounded loudly. But Carolyn could not tell if Nicholas had been hit, for his horse was screaming, rearing high into the air. Sasha was thundering past him and into the salon, saber aloft. Carolyn winced and looked away as, with one stroke of his saber, he severed the soldier's arm from his body. The Frenchman screamed, falling.

' And Nicholas was now riding recklessly into the salon, behind his cousin. Only one other Frenchman remained. And suddenly the tableau was frozen. Nicholas and Sasha faced the last Frenchman, their horses absolutely still, blood and foam dripping from the bits, both men holding their bloody sabers high, their expression identically savage. The Frenchman stood as still, his own saber aloft, clearly wanting to flee. No one moved. No one breathed. Suddenly a pendulum clock could be heard ticking.

And there was so much blood, everywhere, and so much

death. Carolyn suddenly prayed for Nicholas to have mercy.

And, as if he had somehow heard her prayer, he dropped his arm and nodded. The Frenchman bolted, racing past the . two Russian princes, out of the salon, through the foyer, and from the house.

Carolyn sagged against the terrace post, her cheek against the outside of the house, suddenly crying. And she thanked God for His deliverance.

"Carolyn," Nicholas said tersely.

So he had heard her. Carolyn looked up and through the broken window to see him staring at her from the center of the salon where he sat his trembling, blowing charger. Rehef covered his features. It filled his golden eyes.

"Katya," Carolyn choked, unable to tear her regard from his. He was here. He was alive. Dear God, they were all alive. It was a miracle. "Your father is here. Come, darling, come."

And Nicholas closed his eyes, his nostrils flaring—his nose turning red.

Carolyn was exhausted, but she somehow lifted Katya up and through the window. Katya scrambled through with the vigor of youth. "Father! Father!"

Nicholas rode forward, seizing Katya from the sill and lifting her into his saddle. He held her hard against his chest. His face was buried in her hair. As Carolyn climbed through the window very slowly, like a very old, decrepit woman, she saw his shoulders heaving. She did not blame him for crying.

She slid off the sill and landed in the salon. Her knees threatened to give way and she staggered to the closest chair. Nicholas looked up. Their gazes locked again. Thank you, God, she thought, and it was a litany, there in her mind.

"You are hurt!" he said roughly, Katya in his arms.

Carolyn shook her head. Was she hurt? She glanced down at her dress, which was spotted with blood. "It is only my arm, cut from breaking the window." That seemed

to be the truth. Her forearm had been cut in many places, her sleeve hanging in tatters from her arm.

"You have a gash over your eye," Nicholas said.

Carolyn lifted her hand, which was shaking terribly, and realized that he was right, she was bleeding from the right temple. "It is nothing."

"Father," Katya suddenly said. "You are bleeding all over the floor!"

Carolyn's gaze flew over Nicholas, but he sat his horse with only his right side visible to her, and she saw nothing on him other than dirt and grime and the blood of the enemy—and then she saw the blood pooling on the floor on the charger's left. She stiffened, met his eyes, and saw how starkly white he was.

Carolyn was on her feet. She rushed around the horse and cried out. The lower half of Nicholas's left leg was covered with blood. The portion of trouser covering his knee was soaked through and through. "Nicholas?"

"I have been shot," he said.

She stared at him, her heart stopping, terror seizing her— afraid he was going to die. "I must stop the bleeding," she cried shrilly. She reached down and ripped off half of her skirt with superhuman strength.

"Is TaichiH dead?" Katya asked tremulously.

Carolyn paused. Nicholas also turned. They both followed the child's gaze. Carolyn choked. Taichili lay sprawled face up on the floor near the salon doors. There was a bright red hole in the center of her chest.

"Oh, God," Carolyn said. "Oh, God," she cried, slipping to the floor. "Oh, God!"

Nicholas slid Katya to the floor. He dismounted awkwardly, hanging on to his saddle for support. "Yes," he said somberly. "She is dead. She died instantly. She did not feel a thing, Katya,"

Carolyn closed her eyes, hugging her knees, tears burning her lids. Taichili had died in order that they might escape the French. And suddenly she was seized with a

murderous hatred. Look at what the bastards had done! How she hated them all!

"I think she died to save us, Father," Katya said in a choked tone.

"I am sure that she did. She was very brave. Carolyn. You must pull yourselt together."

Cai'olyn heard him and managed to open her eyes. She felt tears rolling down her cheeks, then realized the pain he was in. His cheeks were flushed, the rest of his face ghostly white, and he was using all of his strength to stand upright, clinging to the pommel of his saddle. "Fm sorry," she whispered. Nicholas needed her. She had to bandage his knee and stop the bleeding. Carolyn forced herself to her feet. Her mind began to function. "Katya. Quickly. Go upstairs and fetch me sheets." Katya raced away.

"We must leave Moscow. Unfortunately, I am going to need your help," Nicholas said grimly.

Carolyn nodded, dismay overcoming her as comprehension struck her hard. Hee Moscow. With Nicholas wounded, and God only knew how many French troops in the vicinity. This nightmare was not over yet.

But she forced a smile. "Very well. But first let me take care of your wound."

Nicholas opened his mouth to reply when a loud thud sounded.

She started, her gaze flying now to the far side of the salon. Nicholas managed to crook his head around. In the melee and the ensuing reunion, they had all forgotten about Sasha. But where was he? His dark bay horse stood by the salon doors, its head hanging low, in exhaustion—and he was riderless.

And Sasha lay on the floor by his hooves, as pale and still and lifeless as Taichili's corpse.

Ht© Thirty-two ^

SASHA was alive. Carolyn knelt beside him, looking up at Nicholas, who leaned heavily on his horse, having hobbled precariously as far as he could across the salon. "He is alive, Nicholas," she whispered in relief.

Nicholas nodded, but he was even whiter than before. "Carolyn," he said, and he could not hide the urgency in his tone. "We must get him into the wagon outside. We have to hurry."

Carolyn stared at him. The depth of the dilemma now facing them hit her hard, terrifying her. They were going to flee Moscow, she, the child, and the two wounded men, one of whom was unconscious and perhaps close to death. Forget the fact that she had never driven a wagon in her life. How was she going to get both men into the back of it? And what if, while they were trying to leave, more soldiers overcame them? It quickly crossed her mind that the single soldier they had let flee might come back with friends. Her gaze locked with Nicholas's penetrating one. She knew he had already thought of the dangers facing them. Her insides curdled as Katya ran back into the room with an armful of sheets.

"Katya, put out all of the torches. Light one candle," Nicholas ordered hoarsely. As Katya ran to obey, Nicholas looked at Carolyn. "We'll tie him to his horse and drag him," he gritted. Sweat streaked his brow. As Katya put

out the three torches left behind by the soldiers, the entry hall was cast into dark, menacing shadows. The child held a single taper aloft, gazing from her father to Carolyn.

"I want to bind his shoulder first," Carolyn said.

"No. Use his belt, or the cords from the draperies, and tie him to the horse. Katya will help, I will try to help as well." His knuckles were white even in the dark from the force he was exerting to hold on to the saddle of his horse. Periodically, he swayed ever so slightly.

Katya came forward. "I am strong for a child," she said to Carolyn. She was also pale and wide-eyed with fear.

"I know you are," Carolyn said softly, standing. She gave her a quick hug. "And you are very brave—like your father."

"Are the French soldiers coming back?" Katya asked anxiously.

"Probably not," Nicholas interjected calmly.

Carolyn met his gaze, recognized the lie, grabbed a sheet, and hurried to his side. She began ripping the linen into strips.

"What are you doing?" he ground out. "Carolyn, we do not have time."

"You are not going to die, Nicholas!" Carolyn flared, losing her temper". She could handle anything, including this night of hell, but not losing Nicholas. Then she realized what she had said and she glanced at Katya, who was motionless. "If you will not let me bandage Vorontsky, let me at least take eare of you." She knelt.

"We have to get out of here," he gritted. "Dammit."

"Is my father going to die?" Katya whispered.

"No, Katya." Nicholas was firm. "Carolyn has a tendency to exaggerate."

Carolyn did not respond, concentrating on the task at hand. Her jaw set, she wrapped the torn piece of linen around his knee, causing him to gasp and flinch. She did not look up, refusing to think of the pain he must be in, winding it around the shattered joint many times, as tightly as she could. Katya hovered behind her. "Katya, get me

the cord from the draperies," she said. "In fact, get all four of them."

Nicholas stared down at her. "I did not know you were medically inclined as well," he said.

She glanced up. "I read a medical encyclopedia when I was ten." It was a monstrous fib.

^ He smiled, slightly, the curve of his mouth twisted with pain.

Katya had obeyed. Carolyn used one of the cords to secure the bandage as tightly as possible to his leg. As she did so, she tried to remain clear-headed, no easy task. What if they could not find a physician to care for the two wounded men? Nicholas had lost so much blood. She had never seen so much blood before. She wondered if sheer force of will were keeping him conscious and upright. As she finished her task, she thought about God, praying to Him for his blessing again and again. "Where are we going to find a doctor?" she asked, low.

"An army field hospital. Not far from Kutuzov's camp."

Carolyn absorbed the implications of that. "There." She stood, and laid her palms on his chest. "Can you get back on your horse?"

He nodded, his gaze locked with hers. Suddenly he bent and pressed a kiss to her cheek. Carolyn's heart turned over. She saw immense gratitude in his eyes, and perhaps even a far greater emotion. Yet she did not want to delude herself. She watched him face the mount, which was motionless, from sheer exhaustion. He tried to lift his wounded leg and cried out harshly.

Carolyn pressed her shoulder against his hips. With a cry of anguish, Nicholas somehow settled his thigh across the saddle and then his entire body followed. He slumped against the black's neck, panting, shudders wracking him from head to toe.

"Don't pass out now," Carolyn heard herself beg. "Please."

He lifted his head. "Sasha," he gasped.

Carolyn whirled, racing to Vorontsky, dragging one of

the small oriental rugs with her. "Katya, help me roll the prince over onto the rug," she cried.

Katya flew to her side. As the child and Carolyn bent over the unmoving, almost lifeless prince, an odd, cracking noise sounded, almost over their heads. And then something heavy crashed, either in the back of the house or above.